The Shadow of The Necromancer
by Count Le MadPhantom
Summary: Based on the legendary world of JKR, but with mostly original plot and characters... though don't be suprised if a few old faces and places pop in as well. An American wizard finds himself thrust into something dark in England...
1. Chapter 1

_To the reader(s)…_

_So allow me to give you a little introduction. I made a mounted a fairly enjoyable expedition to the wacky world of fanfiction in the past, with a series of "Teen Titans" fanfics (Comic nerd, lolol! But seriously…), and to be honest, I still feel bad for not finishing them. And lately I've been thinking I'd like to write something. Well, in the last few months, I finally got around to reading the last couple Harry Potter books (I read the first five as they came out, but stopped at the fifth, you see), and between that and my HP-nut friends, I've kind of got the subject on my brain. Some notes—I'm not what you'd call a "Hardcore" HP fan. I can't remember all the spells, I'm sure I've forgotten some of the minor characters, and I never bothered to find out what happened to the characters after the books, though I do believe JKR made up little "epilogues" of sorts for most of them. Due to this, I will be sticking with the book-events only, though this story will be mostly original—indeed, don't expect a story based around JKR's characters. Not that I have anything against these characters! I love them. But I also very much enjoy making up my own. Due to this, this story will likely be mostly original both in plot and characters, with a small mélange of various HP characters and references to the books added in every so often. That being said, if you're interested in a story that takes place in the world of Harry Potter, thought it may not necessarily be as good, or quite the same, as JKR herself's, I invite you to read on. I hope you enjoy._

_PS. I'll be honest with all of you reading this. Like everything else I've ever written, I have a rough idea in mind, but I never really know what's going to happen next from moment-to-moment. I find the making-up-as-you-go approach to be the most fun anyway, to write and (hopefully!) to read._

_**DISCLAIMER**--I in know way own, claim any ownership of or authority over, or lay any stake to the Harry Potter mythos. Every last word of it is the property of Englishwoman J.K. Rowling. This is a non-profit, entertainment oriented, unofficial work written by and for fans of Harry Potter._

**_THE SHADOW OF THE NECROMANCER—Chapter One_**

There was, at first glance, nothing unusual or deviant from mainstream society at all about the young man named Amos Boucher. At least, not beyond being a somewhat sickly young man, unmarried in an area where marriages by the age of twenty was not uncommon—he himself was twenty one—and a way with words. He lived in Louisiana, in the Southern region of the United States of America, in a small, elevated house (the sort which was commonly built in or around swamps or beside rivers) just a few miles away from the small town of Lecompte. It was in this town that he worked as a bookkeeper and general office clerk for a small real estate agency called Winchester's. He was not necessarily wealthy, but was certainly not poor, and he, having no wife or children to care for, was able to devote the majority of his earnings not spent towards upkeep, necessities, and taxes on himself. Thus, he was able to live fairly comfortably while also regularly saving away small amounts.

There was nothing glaringly remarkable about his appearance, though he was slightly striking in his complexion. He had no neighbors, per se, but had he had them, they would have lamented over his poor health even having never met him properly. Amos was about six feet tall, around 200 pounds, with thin, pale skin that seemed to scarcely cover the workings of his body underneath—though thankfully, the stark and slightly sallow pallor of his flesh was at least consistent. He was often to be seen with dark semicircles splotched in purple-gray tones around his gaunt eyes, as though he hardly slept. His cheeks were thin with high, prominent bones, and he had a strong chin that jutted down in an almost pointed fashion. Through their heavy lids and thick, prominent brows, his eyes were pale blue, and oftentimes either watery or slightly bloodshot. His hair, brows, and angular, elongated sideburns—which jutted downwards thickly from his hairline then curved in a sharp angle near his lower jaw before ending in points—were all dark brown, the shade of chocolate. He wore it long down his back, though it was somewhat haggard and unkempt looking even in its ponytail. All in all, he looked remarkably like one who was constantly battling a chronic, though apparently not terminal disease—not fatal, but certainly persistent and unpleasant.

In many ways, Amos was a model of precision and punctuality. Every morning at six thirty AM sharp, his door swung open slowly, he stepped out—always leading with his left foot—of his home, carefully turned and locked his door using the oldest and largest key on his keyring, then turned—always to his left, not his right—and stepped out and down the tall, steep flight of wooden stairs, each of which emitted a different tone of creak when stepped on almost like scaling notes on a keyboard. When he reached the bottom, always dressed in the same suit consisting of a navy-blue sport coat, matching suit pants, a white dress shirt and a red necktie, he always got into his black car—an old, but remarkably functional and well-kept Lincoln Town Car, 1989 model—and drove off. He took the same route to work every morning, always arriving within a minute and a half of the same time every time, always stopped to buy gasoline on Friday's at the same gas station—Mac's—and always getting a cup of coffee there, to go. He always left work at four PM, walking to the same parking spot he had always used, getting in, and driving off. He always arrived home within three minutes of his expected time.

But throughout the course of his lifetime, and even the course of one day, a man wears many masks. The people he regularly passed in town but who only vaguely remembered who he was saw only half—maybe a third or quarter, really—of the young man.

Everyone saw him walk up to the real estate building. Everyone out on the street of the little town, that is. This particular street was full of small business of all kinds—antique shops, a bookstore, a deli, a small lot of used cars, and a grocery to name a few. And everyone saw him walk up to the building but no one saw him once he'd walked in the front door. Also, no one saw him emerge, not from the other side of the front door, but rather, from a completely different door in the basement. None of the passerby saw that he emerged inexplicably from the different door in the basement of the building—which, incidentally, the people working upstairs were ignorant about the existence of—and thus, none of them could have known that he was wearing, no longer his navy blue suit, but a long black coat with tails, linen trousers with black and gray pinstripes held up by black suspenders over a crimson, silk shirt with a stiff collar, a black bow-tie, and thick black boots with shining silver buckles. He removed a felt top-hat from his head and hung it on a brass peg on the wood-paneled wall as he entered, next to several other top-hats, capes, and shawls. Many canes and umbrellas of various shapes, colors, and sizes stood propped against this section of wall as well.

He reached into his coat and drew out what looked like a thin, sharp-pointed wooden baton made out of ebony, just over a foot long. He pointed it lazily at his hat, now hanging, and yawned. There was a clattering noise as chains, which had no business being animate of their own will, unabashedly slithered out of nowhere, as though from the wall itself, and coiled around the hat tightly enough to prevent it from being moved, yet somehow gently enough to avoid damaging it.

Amos Boucher spoke for the first time in a voice that was part crisp Southern gentleman, part Cajun hiss. "Can't be too careful these days."

He progressed, boots lightly treading across the carpeted floor, pale green in color. He arrived at the end of the corridor, where a desk was situated next to a few different doors. He propped himself on the desk and bowed his head reverently. "Morning, Miss Arceneaux."

The woman, whose curly blonde hair cascaded in golden spirals down her back and shoulders, was currently powdering her face—somehow without touching the powder puff, which floated of its own accord. It was, however, careful not to spill any on the rather extravagant, Victorianesque dress she was wearing, green and pink in color with lace everywhere. "Mornin' yourself, Mr. B." She said in a somewhat lilting Southern drawl. "I expect you'll be wantin' your key?" She batted her magnificently overrouged eyes at this and lightly smacked her ruby-red lips, which jumped out from her pale, powdered face like blood on ivory.

He remained largely expressionless, but something like the ghost of a smirk appeared just briefly. "Why else do we ever speak?"

She threw up her nose and let out a haughty 'hmph'. "I don't know. You'd imagine after all this time you might just crave conversation."

He yawned this time, giving a fleeting glimpse of oddly elongated, thin teeth. "My dear Delphine, if I want conversation, I'll temporarily vivify my inkwell."

She had, by this time, retrieved a large, rusty key out of many from the top drawer on her desk. She reached over a pile of parchments and yellowed papers and scrolls, over several inkwells with quills and a large typewriter, and handed it to him, but not before letting out another 'hmph!" for good measure. As he walked through the farthest of the doors with this key in hand, her powderpuff followed him and wacked him once on the head as he left as though to berate him.

He was now walking, quite calmly, down a corridor that seemed to have nothing in it. No doors. Nothing but torches on the wall, which seemed to burn far brighter and cast far more shadow than any normal torch ever would. Finally, he reached a door. His door, because it was a dusty oaken door that bore the bronze template, "A. BOUCHER". The other doors had been there, of course. He knew this. He simply did not see them because unless he was seeing a coworker for a reason, he had no business knowing where their door was. It was a fairly common procedure in any place of business these days. Only if you've a genuine reason does the building reveal the way.

Amos's office was large and comfortably furnished. There was an enormous desk on the far wall with piles of ledgers and folders stacked on it, and several drawers which contained various tightly-rolled scrolls sorted alphabetically. He had a few inkwells and a large number of old-fashioned fountain pens.

He smiled for the first time, sitting down in his office and beginning to scrawl on some paperwork using a dripping pen. He wrote for a few minutes, and then he suddenly cracked a book that was on his desk, read over a certain page and frowned. He dog-eared it for later reference, and then pulled out his wooden implement—which, in the trade, was known more specifically as a magic wand—and muttered under his breath.

Instantly, his ledgers flew open and his books of numbers began turning their own pages. Fountain pens flew out of cubbies and drawers and began scratching at papers, and books from his multiple bookshelves whipped through the air with a loud whistling sound and began piling themselves on his desk.

He sighed. Just another day at work as usual.

And yet, he seemed slightly annoyed. His jaw seemed a bit too set to be entirely at-ease. Frowning, he opened a small drawer on the left side of his desk and pulled, from amongst a pile of assorted papers, a small card slightly smaller than a normal envelope. He scrawled on it rapidly, muttering aloud as he wrote.

"_Mister… Winchester… Requesting… night shifts… over this… weekend._" He looked mildly at the card with a smile. He finished, "… Boucher. Yes. Yes, I think that oughta do it." Pleased, he made as though to reach for an envelope, a stack of which were under an old brass paperweight. Before he could, however he was interrupted by a loud noise that stood out even amongst the scrapings of pens on paper and flapping pages of books. His door had suddenly creaked open and in peeped a man with dull, dark-green eyes and blond hair greased back against his head. He had a thin, blond moustache that scarcely covered his top lip and wore a most bored expression.

"Morning, Remy. Or should I say, Mr. Rothbell?" Amos said, greeting the dull-faced man with a wave.

The blond, very thin and extraordinarily tall man, whose full name was indeed Remy Rothbell, stepped inside revealing himself to be wearing a suit much like Amos's, except that it was bright, baby blue with white embellishments and a lace jabot. He spoke in a rather glum, dreary voice that hardly ever left the same, low pitch.

"Morning, Amos." He began expressionlessly. "Just came to tell you… Mister Winchester wants a word."

Amos, who had been in the middle of a yawn, stifled it with a surprised choking sound and stared at the card in his hand and then at Remy, who stared back hollowly. "… Does he, now? Convenient. I suppose he wants it now? I needed to see him anyway."

"Now would be good."

Amos arched an eyebrow. "Ever the faithful assistant. Keep on and you might just get yourself a raise one o' these days."

The humor seemed lost on Remy, who blinked once, very slowly, then replied, "Perhaps."

And with that, Remy gave a stiff, but respectful bow and disappeared quickly and quietly through the door again.

After he had gone, Amos dropped the smile and both baffled and a bit disgruntled. His employer rarely took employee in his office, most matters being taken care of by Remy, the rather glum—but sharp as a whip—assistant. Being asked to come to his office in-person… Amos had no idea what to make of it. This, in conjunction with the almost eerie timing considering he'd wanted to ask him about shifts had him feeling more than a bit uneasy. The various implements around the room seemed to reflect this, as one of the fountain pens that had been filling in numbers next to various names was now poking idly at the desk as though addled, and there was a book of numbers containing the names and locations of various properties and their values and prices over the last several years was currently making snapping-jaw-shaped shadow puppets on the wall next to a lamp, completely oblivious to whatever its work was meant to be. He seemed to realize this all at once and swung his long, black wand irritably, its dark surface glinting with an oily sheen in the dim lighting of the office. Immediately, there was a deafening silence as everything came to a halt. He stood, careful to push his chair back under his desk, and straightened his bow-tie. 'Whatever it is,' he thought to himself, 'it can't be that bad.'

And so it was that he found himself back out in the shadowy, seemingly endless corridor, locking his own office door with the key, which he promptly pocketed. This time, the walk dragged on even longer than before, but he eventually came to a split that opened into three small hallways and took the leftmost one. At the end of this was a large door that took up nearly the entire wall at the end of the corridor. There were two large, golden knockers attached to the front that were fashioned to resemble hounds' heads, their snouts open and fangs bared. Amos stretched out his hand and took the ring of the knocker, banging it against the door three times. When he recoiled his hand, which he did with peculiar haste, the hound he'd used to knock snapped a couple times, its metal form suddenly alive and malleable, and howled loudly and morosely, eyes shining and tongue dangling. Then, as it returned to inaction, the door swung open with no apparent touch.

Amos cleared his throat lightly, suddenly looking even paler than usual if such a thing were possible. He was clearly sweating bullets, and seemed to be uncomfortably warm as he shifted his weight and tugged hesitantly at his collar. Finally, he stepped inside.

The office was not so much as office as a gigantic study. It was round, all curved walls lined with bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling, the upper portions of which were only accessible via the multi-tiered, wheeled ladders that lined them. On one half of the room, there was a collection of glass display cases on velvet-lined podiums. Amongst the exhibits were a group of strange gems of various colors that sparkled brilliantly but bore a weathered sign reading, "Cursed Mesopotamian Treasure". Next to that, there was a fully taxidermied and stuffed specimen of what looked like an enormous cricket with bulging compound eyes and scaly armor. Its bladelike arms were extended imposingly, and it was marked on its tall case as, "South African Gurogecki Mantis—Stunned and executed on Safari". There were a number of cases containing old books with nearly unreadable covers that looked as though they'd crumble to dust if touched, and lastly, there was one holding several bottles of tightly-corked liquids—"Dead Sea Extracts", if their faded moniker was to be believed.

On the other half of the room was a roped off length of wall that housed a row of portraits, all representing celebrated or infamous wizards and witches from the state of Lousiana. Amongst them was a tall, thin man with straw-like hair and watery blue eyes that wore what looked like an old fashioned labcoat. He, more specifically his portrait, yawned and checked his pocketwatch as though bored. His silver nameplate read, "Valencius Von Kiln," and in smaller print, "Inventor of the blood fortification charm to treat anemia and guard against infection." Next to him, there was also, amongst others, a rather wicked looking black woman with several gold teeth, thick dreadlocks, and a pierced nose. She was covered rather wildly in facepaint, and was apparently, "Auntie Couteau, Feared Voodoo Mistress and Dark Witch". She leered fiercely at Amos and licked her thick, cracked lips.

Finally, in the center of the room, was a grand staircase with wooden railings and a scaly, gigantic rug fashioned from what seemed to be the hide of a serpentine, Asian dragon. A Chinese Fireball or Japanese Tsunami perhaps, though its turquoise sheen and purple beard and whiskers hinted at the latter. At the top, near the open maw and staring eyes, Mr. Winchester—a portly, rather short figure dressed in attire similar to a confederate general of the Civil War although with a cape and monocle—sat at his oversized desk in a posh, partially-reclined armchair. Upon seeing Amos, who had just begun to slowly make his way up the stairs and the dragon hide rug, he stood up, though he was still slightly shorter than his tall-backed armchair. His uniform was a dark, grassy shade of green with bright red trim on the shoulders and around the sleeves and brass buttons. His cape was also a ruby-red color. His round face, underneath a receding but neatly-combed length of white hair, beamed with recognition, his cheeks flushed. "Ah, yes… Amos. Good of you to come on such short notice, Son," Old Mr. Winchester said with a thick Southern accent, his voice deep and soft. "I was afraid you'd be tied up."

Amos bowed to his employer, smiling in a rather uncomfortable, yet polite way. "Of course, Sir. Wouldn't have wasted a minute, Sir."

"Always was punctual, wasn't you, Son? Though I… well, I suppose…" The older man seemed slightly uncomfortable and appeared to be choosing his words cautiously. "Well, those of your, ah… nocturnal persuasion… usually sticklers for time and numbers anyway, unless I'm much mistaken?"

Amos gave a nod, hands clasped in front of him. "Yessir." He replied again, looking slightly more haggard than ever. "…. There… is a predisposition of that sort, yes."

"Well then. Contrary to popular opinion, it was a good choice then, wasn't it? To hire—"

Amos coughed and looked a bit frightened, but meekly interrupted. "Er, on that note, Sir… I, um… I was actually wondering… if, perhaps, when Re—Mr. Rothbell," He corrected himself quickly, "… is making out the timetables for this next week, if perhaps I could request… oh, you know, if it's convenient…"

"Say no more. I dare say we've quite interrupted your sleep cycle, eh Son?" The Boss chuckled. "Well, I'll have him set you to work nights at least four days this time around. Let it never be said that Beauregard Winchester was not mindful of his employees' needs." He drawled genially, dusting off his uniform and adjusting his monocle.

"Of course. Thank you, Sir." He replied with another bow. The relief that he felt at having his request granted so easily, however, was suddenly tempered by nervousness again. He reminded himself, with a swift, mental kick, that he wouldn't have been called up for no reason. And despite Mister Winchester's friendly nature, the pessimist in Amos couldn't help but think it had to be that he was going to get reprimanded for some lapse in protocol or some paperwork that was never properly submitted at some point. He braced himself, his long, white teeth gnashing against each other uncomfortably in his mouth.

"Oh, yes, that reminds me…" It was as though he was a mind-reader. His boss trundled back over to the large desk and began digging through one of the drawers. After a minute or two of searching, he smiled triumphantly and pulled out a small parcel. It was rectangular in shape, covered in thick, brown paper, and wrapped with several lengths of what seemed to be black string. At first, Amos stared, slightly puzzled. Then, his employer suddenly reached into his pocket and quickly produced a small jack-knife. He laid the package on the table and Amos saw that it had already been opened with a few clean cuts, but refolded and tied back up with the string. This time, he cut the string in one place and unfolded the paper, revealing the contents.

It was a stack of papers—letters, from the looks of them, all written on stiff parchment in dark blue ink—rather unusual, considering the usual business standard was black. This made him wonder for a moment—perhaps they were from an individual, in search of property?

His guess was confirmed shortly. "What we have here, Amos…" His boss began, swelling with pride like a haughty pigeon, "is a series of letters from a very interested—and very wealthy— individual. He's very interested in our company. We've been in correspondence for about six months now."

Amos nodded to himself. It was not all that unusual. They did often do business, unlike the muggles up-top, with individuals from out of the country, and had properties in-their-possession and on-sale throughout the world, as his employer's lavish office and well-travelled nature suggested.

He continued, "Now, what's somewhat strange is that he wishes to remain anonymous as far as names go, but he has sent me an address, along with all his personal information. Most of all, he wants to meet with a representative of our company. There's a property in London we got that he wants."

Amos blinked. London. England. Long ways away, and he knew from books and stories that an American in jolly old England was about as at-home as a catfish in salt-water. He certainly didn't envy whoever got chosen to…

"I really would go myself, Son, but you know my health ain't been the best lately, and this is a very important matter. I wouldn't have anyone less than one o' my best employees take care of the matter for me."

Amos's heart sank in his chest, and his already thin blood seemed to run cold. "… Me, Sir…?"

"Of course. There'll be a hefty bonus in it for you, if'n you make it back all right and managed to sell the place. Which oughta be easy, considering the man's crazy about it. And don't worry—even though he's anonymous, I've done a little background research. Can't find a name, but have found several references. Whoever he is, he seems legitimate."

A hefty bonus… and the boss really needed it done. He swallowed. "… And when do you want me to leave, Sir?"

"Well, at your earliest convenience. Say three weeks from now, maybe?"

There was a long silence, in which Amos finally forced a smile. "… Of course. How will I be getting… to London, Sir? Muggle means?"

"No airplanes this time, Amos. And the journey's too long for broomsticks, that's for certain." The boss assured, and the young man seemed to silently let out a full-body sigh of relief. "There's actually a ship here I've got you a ticket for, somewhere… it leaves in three weeks' time, and it'll take you straight there. Of course, I've spoken with the captain already via post. He'll be more than happy to… arrange for you needs." He produced a stiff, note-card sized slip of parchment rolled tightly into what looked like a miniscule scroll. It had a blue ribbon keeping it tied shut. "There! That'll get you on board. Do not lose it."

"That settles it then, Sir. I'll be off in three weeks." Said Amos, sounding resigned and shutting his eyes briefly. He wiped them with his thumbs, the dark circles seeming more intense than usual.

"Great! Knew I could count on you, Amos, knew it. People told me, I was making a mistake. But now I have absolutely no regrets about hiring you. Who says vampires make inferior employees?"

Amos opened his slightly bloodshot eyes and smiled. "Yessir. Right, Sir."

"Which reminds me… got something for you. The wife made another batch." He reached into his desk and procured a mason jar full of something sticky, gelatinous and red. He handed it to Amos.

He looked flattered. "More preserves? You're too kind, Mister Winchester."

"Aw, don't mention it, Son. No different than makin' grape or apple or pear preserves, 'cept for the whole matter of using pork blood instead of juice."

Amos smiled, thanked his employer profusely, and left for his office again. He was not much for road trips, and he preferred constancy to change… but, the boss had chosen him for this job. And it'd surely reflect poorly on him if he didn't take it.

There was a very long, silent pause.

"Well, Amos…" He muttered to himself back in his office, taking up a pen half-dazedly. "Looks like you're gonna be workin' on your 'Cheerio' and your 'Old Chap', for the next couple o' weeks."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Shadow of the Necromancer--Chapter Two _**

Amos sighed as he looked around. He was going to miss this place for the duration of his stay in the UK, that was for certain.

His living room was fairly spacious. It consisted of a hardwood floor and a high, slanted ceiling with wooden walls that had been painted a dark, grassy shade of green. The wooden floor was covered in various places by shaggy rugs of various dark colors like blacks, grays, dark blues, deep greens… and the room, in the shape of a large square, was occupied by a number of unusual—but to Amos, comfortingly familiar—things. Next to the front wall of his house, near where the front door was, there were three large, identical sets of shelves, all three of which were lined with a varied assortment of books, arranged alphabetically. The first set was labeled A-G, and apparently contained 121 books. The second was labeled H-Q, and, according to its white label, had 133 books. The final set of shelves was, predictably, R-Z, and contained 105 books. He wouldn't have had these any other way. One of his first habitual behaviors upon arriving home was ensuring these were all still in order. The rest of the wall, of which there was not much, was occupied by various paintings in wooden frames—most of which were very traditional, not the sort of surreal, abstract pop-art that has become the fashion nowadays. There was a picture of a lovely woman, garbed in a white gown, her pale, slight-proportioned hand reaching out to a dove on a green-splotched tree limb, gazing at it curiously with her bright blue eyes as a cascade of blonde hair ran down her back. There was also a small painting of, simply, a bowl of colorful and realistically textured fruits. And there were a few others, each of beautiful and romantic, or perhaps just simple and mundane things. You and I would take little notice, but a wizard would have found these quite extraordinary—they did not move. There was no magic at all about them, they were mere paint and canvas. But to Amos, they did in fact hold a magic all their own.

Another wall was occupied by a long metal table on which there were neatly stacked piles of parchment, a wicker basket full of envelopes and scroll-ties for use, a pot full of fountain pens and quills, several stacks of plain paper, and a number of folders and binders. On the far end, there was an enormous glass tank. A candle burned next to it for light. Inside the tank, there was a thick "floor"—a tightly packed and regularly moistened mixture of peat moss, smooth river rocks, and bits of sand. Various plants—false, but very well made—lined the tank and there was an old section of log with several holes in it, and two overturned coconuts with openings carved into the fronts. The back was covered with a paper that illustrated, in beautiful art, a woodland scene. And crawling about this tank were three large spiders—fat tarantulas, by the looks of them, all three great and shaggy arachnids. The first was jet black, the second a bright pinkish color, and the third a sort of rusty copper.

Hung over this desk were several display boards containing several groups of insects—beetles, butterflies, bees, roaches, wasps—arranged by type and preserved on a background with their Latin names posted neatly underneath. On the opposite wall from all of this, there was another tank, but much larger, and consisting solely of normal soil, but with an infinite number of miniscule tunnels dug through it—fire ants marched busily about their daily tasks. Next to this titanic ant farm, was an old recliner that looked well-worn, but structurally sound. The armchair looked rather like it was sat upon on a regular basis, in the same position each time. Next to it was a tall, silver candelabrum. On the rear wall were three doors, which led to a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen respectively. The bathroom and kitchen were fairly ordinary, if slightly dated in their furnishings. The bedroom, however, was fairly unusual.

Primarily because there was a very large casket on a black-clothed podium sitting in the center of it, with an overstuffed pillow, several thick blankets, and a stuffed toy bat inside of it.

The rest of the room was rather remarkable. There was a large mirror situated at the wall opposite the casket. There were no windows. The only other bizarre furnishing was a wooden beam strung from the ceiling by two lengths of chain, rather like an enormous bird-perch. The only light came from an old fireplace, the mantle of which was covered by white lace and a few faded photographs. There was a single, small, spindly-legged table upon which there rested a glass jar full of small bones, and next to this, an enormous wooden wardrobe with a rifle lying across its flat top.

Amos was currently dressed in a set of red long-johns with a black bathrobe over it. His hair was out of its ponytail and hung in thick locks. He gnawed and puffed distractedly on an old wooden pipe, some sort of shimmering green smoke coming from it, as he scribbled out something on a sheet of paper, his pale brow furrowed.

_"Mister Winchester, Sir, _

_I have finished my preparations for the journey, and have done my packing. I will enclose a spare key with this message, as I will require someone to look after my animals while I am gone, and there are detailed instructions enclosed separately. Thank you for understanding. Also, I should like someone to make certain that my office remains undisturbed in my absence, even in light of the charms placed upon it. _

_I am, Sir, your deeply indebted employee, _

_AMOS L. BOUCHER" _

Amos tapped the pen to his thin lips as he read over this message again, looking more or less satisfied. As he puffed and tapped, his foot absent mindedly nudged the large briefcase on the floor next to himself—enchanted with a potent Extension Charm, of course. Amos had too much love of being over prepared to pack anything less than what he believed necessary, which was quite a lot.

He carefully folded the paper and placed it in an envelope. He applied no stamps, but wrote hastily in ink, Winchester Real Estate—Wizarding Division, 244 Violet Road, Lecompte, LA, USA. He then sealed the envelope with an old fashioned wax stamp and got up, still clutching it. He walked to the nearest window, opened the thick green curtains, and unlocked it. He opened the glass panes and felt the hot, moist wind of the Louisiana swamplands smack him in the face. Undeterred, he whistled into the night. It was a loud, piercing sound that was almost horrifying coming from pursed human lips. It sounded more like the screech of a large bird or the wail of a banshee.

He stood still for about three minutes, hair blowing in the night air and gazing almost boredly out into the darkness. But something shadowy caught his eye, and he smiled as the shape moved into view.

A large bat was flapping to his window, jet black with leathery wings. It perched upside down from the top of his window. Amos smiled and said, softly, "I need you to deliver this for me." He gently pried open one foot of the animal and placed the envelope there before he let go, allowing the clawed foot to snap closed again. The flying mammal chirped shrilly and took flight again as he closed the window.

* * *

The three weeks had come and gone with almost remarkable speed, and Amos found himself on a long drive to the specified address—which happened to be in a small coast town called Wildethorne. You won't find it on any map, mainly because it was one of the few entirely wizarding settlements in the state. Situated on the Southern border of Louisiana, where the coastline met the ocean to the East of Mexico, it was a town of creaky, multi-tiered buildings, gravel roads, and residences that ranged from elevated wooden shacks along a small creak, to a few large, extremely old manors owned by the wealthier residents, with a number of brick apartment buildings for the in-betweens. It was full of old-fashioned shops—a general store, a barbershop, a post office, a deli, though they were all of the magical variety. No Muggles to be found here.

As Amos watched his car being rolled onto the deck of the ship—which was not a normal ship, but more like an ancient wooden galleon—and saw the other passengers boarding by way of a large ramp, he sighed. He didn't look forward to the trip, but it had to be done. He straightened his black bowtie and his long dress coat, tightened his top hat upon his head and his briefcase in one hand and his walking stick in the other, he began trudging after the other wizards and witches boarding the vessel.

`He was immediately met by a man wearing a pair of baggy trousers, long rubber boots, a loose tunic, and a raincoat. He seemed to be part of the crew. He grinned and bowed slightly to Amos.

"How you doin', Boss?" The man wheezed in a thick Cajun accent deeper than the bayou. "If I could just see yo' ticket, 'den?"

Amos nodded courteously and displayed the ticket that Mr. Winchester had given him.

"Everythin' look in order, Mistah. Go on ahead." The burly man stepped back and sunk into a deep bow, motioning towards the entrance to the large "cabin"—though it was really more the size of a small apartment building—of the ship. Amos blinked. Apparently, these were better tickets than he had thought. He was not staying below deck, but above it.

In the space of a few minutes, he had been handed a key, given a room number—29—and was sitting in a small, but comfortably furnished room. The bed was soft, he was tired… and the morning sun was still blazing after a very long drive with very few pit stops. He would have just taken his broom, but he, being somewhat paranoid, preferred to take his car with him just in case he ever needed a way to travel that wouldn't attract attention and was broom-inaccessible. Thus, he had driven the whole way, although said broom was in the trunk along with a few other suitcases. At any rate, he could feel fatigue wearing on his body like chains, and the sun stung at his eyes. He drew his curtains rather moodily, even though he knew he'd see only water through the window soon anyway, this being the same sort of underwater ship fitted with various waterproofing, oxygenating, stealth, and protection charms that the wizarding world regularly employed in answer to Muggle "cruise liners."

He curled up under his blankets, hands folded morosely against his chest, and slept.

* * *

When Amos was awakened by knocking at the door, he was not sure how many hours had passed. But he sat up straight abruptly and said, "Come in!"

A crewman, dressed similar to the one that had taken his ticket, but taller and thinner in build, with a pale red moustache, bowed as he brought in a small wooden box. It was labeled, "AMOS BOUCHER" in large, black letters stamped across the top lid. "Evenin'. You Mister Boucher?" He yawned with a friendly smile.

"I am indeed." Amos said, hastily standing and dusting himself off. He hoped, nervously, that the man would not find it odd that he'd been sleeping in his good clothes.

"Captain sent this for you. Said he'd gotten your company's letter. It's the, uh…" The crewman looked, for the first time, somewhat nervous and—possibly—afraid. "The… well…. The you know what, for you…"

Eager to put the man at ease, Amos cleared his throat and took the box, shaking the man's hand forcefully, but cautiously. "Ah, thanks! Thanks, I really appreciate the accommodations." It had suddenly dawned on him what this was. Thank God for pro-vampire blood-bank-charities.

The crewman smiled genially, though he wiped his forehead with something akin to relief. He murmured something akin to "Don't mention it," and then made to leave the room. Before he did, however, he said over his shoulder, "Oh, and by the by… most of the other guests are havin' a little party in the main dining chamber, if y'like." And with that, he was gone.

Amos sat the box down on the bed and opened the lid after unlatching it. Sure enough, there were, inside, several glass bottles—all darkly tinted to hide the rather morbidly crimson color of the contents—with corks. Amos popped a sharp nail into the cork of one, uncorked it, and then flicked the cork from his finger. Then, carefully avoiding his suit, he swigged down the contents, which tasted, to him, rather of a minty, almost mentholesque taste, and felt a filling warmth spread throughout his gut as though he'd just eaten a large quantity of roast meat. He deposited the bottle back into the box, which he latched and slid under his bed. Then, feeling quite refreshed from sleep and being fed, he stood and smiled.

"Maybe this trip won't be so bad after all. A little socializin' might be just what I need."

* * *

When he arrived at the main dining chamber, his worries of standing out were greatly alleviated. He found the place extremely crowded, and despite his odd appearance, he had a knack for blending in with crowds. He slipped in and out of crowds of people, greeting people politely in passing, but not staying long enough to introduce himself. He sampled all sorts of dishes—there was a large platter of roast beef in a thick gravy that was particularly delicious. He swiped a handful of crisp, hot hushpuppies when no one was looking and downed them in one swallow. He helped himself, gladly, to a slice of apple pie. And he washed it all down with several glasses of red wine.

"This food's great!" Amos said to a crewman who was scuttling by. "If you see any of them, give my compliments to the cooks, won't you?"

"Sure." The crewman, a young man with heavy lids and a five o' clock shadow said, forcing a smile. But it faded quickly. "If I ever see them tonight. I've been running around like a headless rooster for a while now…"

Amos wiped his mouth with a napkin and cocked his head quizzically. "Busy night, huh? Well, I reckon the passengers must keep you busy."

"Passenger, more like. Mainly the one guy." He responded.

"One guy? Keeping you all so busy?" Amos asked in disbelief.

"Well, a good bit of it's down to him anyway. Keep it under your hat, like, but…" The crew member looked around furtively, as though to make sure they were not being watched or overheard. He continued, "… Well, it ain't just Americans on board this time around. There's a Limey that bought the best room on the ship, and he's been nothing but a pain in the ass since he showed up." He paused. "Now, don't get me wrong. We're goin' to England, and I ain't got nothin' against Englishmen, but this particular one's nothing but a snake in the grass. Thinks he can boss us all around like he owns us. I mean, yeah, we're here to serve the passengers and all that, but… well, I'd say being ordered to wash their clothes borders on the extreme, don't you think, Pal? They're working us like house elves."

"They?" Amos asked, blinking.

The young man nodded. "His wife. She's damn near as bad as he is."

"I see… well, good luck…" Amos began uncertainly. He attempted a reassuring smile, though he was careful not to show too much of his fangs. "Only this one trip, eh?"

"You got that right, Brother." The young crewman replied wearily. And with that, he left.

… Amos began walking aimlessly through the crowd, passing well-dressed wizards and witches and drifting through and around them like a shadow in a crowded room. He listened intently, picking out snatches of conversation here and there, his slightly pointed ears alert to every sound…

"Mighty fine ham they got…"

"And so I said, 'What owls'?"

"I wonder, do you still get seasick UNDER the water?"

"Hey, have you seen that nice looking little thing sittin' over there by…"

All of the sudden, amongst all of the cacophony, he knew at once who he was hearing. A rather frigid voice, drawling—in a high, heavily-British tone—loudly over the din.

"I told them that trying to buy out that bloody company was a waste of time. We spent a month in this Hell-hole of a country for nothing. Muggles everywhere, traipsing about as though they owned the place. I mean really now..."

Amos jerked suddenly, scanning anxiously. He heard more, in a different voice that was almost abrasively feminine, in an equally English tone. "Now, Darling, we shouldn't have expected much. I always heard that this place was… infested, by muggles. Of course, even our kind isn't much better around here. Wandering around in those ridiculous clothes. I don't care if it's traditional or not, it's far too much like the muggles for my liking. And they have the unmitigated audacity to stare at US for wearing robes like sensible people!"

He managed to pick them out in under a minute. They were seated together at a table, and both were wearing, incredibly, long robes and hooded cloaks. Amos's mouth hung open. This, even without having heard them speak, confirmed it—they weren't from around here. But he knew that such clothes were favored heavily in older parts of the world, particularly Europe…

There were two of them, a man and a woman. They both looked roughly the same age as Amos himself, and shared a table near the rear of the chamber that was piled high with large samples of every dish, most of them half eaten. The young man was tall, very thin, with skin that was nearly as pale as Amos's, although he did not look sickly. His face was angular, pointed, with a prominent nose and a sharp chin. His hair was peculiar. It was blonde, but a very pale, almost metallic blonde that nearly gave the impression of a gold-tinged platinum. It was slicked backwards against his head and combed down the back, leaving his forehead bare and his pronounced widow's peak exposed. His beady eyes were very dark, like pools of ink in the middle of white orbs, and they shifted around ceaselessly, taking in the surroundings with what his flaring nostrils and broad scowl suggested was maximum disdain. His long robes were ornate and thick. They were bright, almost neon green with shining silver trim on the sleeves and around the front. He wore matching silver gloves, and around his right forefinger was a golden ring that, if Amos was not mistaken, looked rather like a tiny, golden serpent coiling around the finger…

The young woman looked almost out of place. She wore similar robes, but with more frills around the neckline and sleeves. She wore lace gloves, and several gaudy rings with large, colorful gemstones. Her hair was jet-black and somewhat oily, and it came down to about her chin-line. She had striking green eyes that were narrow, and she had applied her makeup somewhat heavy-handedly. She would have been rather attractive, but… there was something odd about her features. They were, in theory, attractive. But they didn't quite seem to match up. Her face was not heavy, but it was, in fact, very rounded, and her nose was large and somewhat stubby. Her lips were shapely and covered in bright-red lipstick, but they were very broad and large. The overall impression was that of a pompous bulldog, minus the wrinkles, her rounded and almost squashed features contrasting with her male companion's very sharp and angular face.

Their table was situated away from most of the crowd, and they themselves seemed to take little-to-no notice of anyone else in the room, talking as though they were alone in their own living room.

Slowly and carefully, Amos made his way closer to their table, weaving slowly and seemingly-aimlessly through the crowd, if for no other reason than to get a better look at them. He passed a child tugging at her father's pants leg and pointing to a large chocolate cake on a nearby table, as well as an old woman who stopped him to warn him that he "had a bit of raspberry jam on his lips." Needless to say, Amos nodded sheepishly and licked them furiously, keen to get any red off. Finally, he had arrived at the edge of the crowd, looking in the direction of the table. But his timing turned out to be rather poor. They were both getting up, presumably about to return to their room. And as they began to walk at a surprisingly brisk pace—almost awkwardly fast to Amos, and he wondered vaguely whether they were from a big city like London to walk that way, as he'd seen people from New York walk the same way—Amos suddenly found that he was right in their path, though he tried to get out of the way of the oncoming English, a truly alarmed 'The-British-Are-Coming' look upon his face.

In his zeal to get out of the way, his shoe actually caught the head of a nail that was protruding from under a rug somewhat. It had not been hammered down appropriately into the wooden floor. And with a small, almost inaudible snapping sound, he lost his balance and fell over, narrowly avoiding knocking over a table and hitting two people on the way down. His head swam somewhat as he stared up at the raftered ceiling, eyes strained against the light.

And he heard, with painful clarity, the man's voice. "Good Lord, is he drunk? Or just blind as a bat?" This was immediately followed up by a shrieking cackle that caused a few people around to flinch, and the crowd parted hastily, if resentfully, to allow the pair through, neither of which said so much as 'excuse me.'

Amos sat up, and for the first time, looked absolutely livid. He was vaguely aware that his long fingers were scratching slowly at the boards underneath through his gloves, and that he was gnashing his teeth under a scowl.

* * *

It was about an hour later, as Mrs. Pansy Malfoy shed her ornate, lace-and-frills-laden robes in favor of a long dressing gown, brushing her hair in the mirror, looking lazily content. The room was indeed the best on board, though Amos's was nearly as nice.

Her husband, a Mr. Draco Malfoy, was currently out of the room having a bit of a walk. Now, he had said, would be the opportune time, "What with all the riff-raff sleeping off full guts and hangovers."

She scowled as she got up and looked out the window at the fish outside. These underwater trips never really sat well with her. Why not flying ships? At any rate, she pulled the curtains closed over the round window and went back to her seat in front of the mirror.

But at that moment, something yanked violently at the hair she was brushing, and she gasped, followed by a short squeal as she was yanked off her seat and landed on her rear. She grabbed at her hair and got a handful of something… large and furry. No sooner had she felt it than something nipped sharply at her finger and she shrieked. A moment later, her hair was deserted, but an enormous, brown bat was swooping wildly about the room, screeching.

"AAAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGH!" She screamed, running about as the flying mammal took pot shots at her, as though deliberately trying to see how close to her face it could swoop without touching her.

It flapped noisily over to the rear of the room, where a bottle of champagne, still tightly corked, was lying at the edge of the bed. It dived at the bottle, clawed feet out, and knocked the bottle to the floor. It did not shatter, but rather, erupted and uncorked with such violence that the foaming spray doused the front of Mrs. Malfoy's nightgown, resulting in another loud shriek.

The door, which had been cracked already, flew open and in stepped Mr. Malfoy, looking thunderstruck. "Dearie? What on Ear—" He gasped and stumbled out of the way as the bat flew in a straight line at his face, little red eyes glinting and fangs bared.

And with that, it was gone out the door, leaving him to stagger over to her and drop to the floor, comforting her awkwardly while she sobbed at his shirt.

* * *

Amos wondered if he had been reckless. He kind of regretted losing his temper like that actually, but he decided not to dwell upon it. Instead, he downed another of his bottles and slowly crawled into his bed, eager for more sleep. He had already changed out of his good clothes this time, and was wearing his red one-piece longjohns and black robe again.

The last thing he muttered to himself before drifting off to sleep was, "Blind as a bat. Show them how batty I can be…"

Within a couple of minutes, he was deeply asleep, covered in the sheets, his arms across his chest, seemingly not breathing, and lying in the appearance of death.


End file.
